Litov's movements on the map.'
'More than that. Later tomorrow we're visiting the Fixer in Bruges. He may be able to tell us who is the real power behind the Stockholm Syndicate.'
Chapter Five
The Fixer. Dr. Henri Goldschmidt, dealer in rare coins, was one of Bruges' most eminent citizens. Beaurain estimated his present age at about sixty but could only guess — the doctor guarded his private life jealously and you dared not ask him the wrong question. The penalty was to be instantly crossed off his list of social acquaintances.
'They are excluded from my milieu,' he once explained. 'And, of course, once excluded they can never be re-admitted.'
He spoke eight languages fluently, including French, English and German; he also used his finely-shaped hands to aid his flow of conversation, gesturing with controlled deliberation to emphasize a point. He was the confidant of royalty, American millionaires and French industrialists. Less well-known was the fact that he was on good terms with some of Europe's top gangsters. This was the man Beaurain was going to meet.
One hour before dawn the huge Sikorsky helicopter took off from the Chateau Wardin. Litov — who had endured his last 'interrogation' at the hands of Dr. Alex Carder — was lying on a stretcher, as on the 'outward' journey, his damaged arm expertly protected with a splint and bandages and his left wrist and ankle handcuffed to the stretcher. His right ankle was also manacled.
There were two guards in the gunners' normal battle uniform — denim trousers, crepe-soled shoes, windcheaters and Balaclava helmets which completely masked their appearance. One was Stig Palme. The second was a twenty-nine year old German, Max Kellerman. A year earlier he had been looking forward to a brilliant career as a lawyer. Then his fiancee had been caught in terrorist crossfire when the police had been tipped off about a bank raid in Bonn. They were still unaware that the tip-off had come from Jules Beaurain. It was something he had also concealed from Kellerman, as he had once explained to Louise.
If Kellerman knew I started the whole thing off he might blame me for the death of his fiancee.'
Litov had been blindfolded before he left the large cell he had occupied for over a week. Once again he was relying on sound and his sense of smell to double-check what he had learned about Telescope's main base. The same bonfire smoke had hit his nostrils when they carried him from the building to the ramp at the rear of the chopper. They took him the same way out — he felt and heard the change from carpet to stone; then the stone steps followed by an absence of sound suggesting grass. The bonfire stench didn't seem strange: from his tour of duty in London he recalled that the British kept foul-smelling fires smoking all summer.
'Don't forget to light that bonfire in good time,' Beaurain had reminded Stig Palme. 'Litov is bright — he must not get a whiff of the Ardennes pines while he's being carried aboard'.
It had been 3 a.m. when they had come to collect Litov. Still wearing his wrist-watch, he had managed to check the time before one of the masked guards applied the blindfold. If he was being returned to the same starting-point the flight from England should take about three hours.
When the Sikorsky landed, Litov, still imprisoned on the stretcher in the cargo hold, found himself re-living his earlier experience in reverse. There was a bump as the chopper came to earth, a pause while the rotors stopped spinning, followed by the purr of the hydraulics as the automatic ramp at the rear of the cargo hold was lowered.
His blindfold was removed by a guard with a Balaclava concealing his face. These people didn't miss many tricks, Litov thought smugly — and then he was being lifted down into broad daylight. The strong scent of Ardennes pines entered his nostrils and above he saw the tops of the trees encircling the secret helipad. The two guards carried him to the familiar van with Boucher across the rear doors. They dumped him on the same leather couch alongside the left-hand wall, the doors were closed and Kellerman and Palme sat facing their captive with machine-pistols across their laps.
'We are driving you to Brussels Midi station,' Kellerman told Litov in English as the van began to move. 'Here are your papers, Mr. James Lacey or whatever your name is.'
Litov could hardly believe it. Kellerman bent over him and returned his wallet to his inside pocket. Was this a trick to throw him off balance, to make him relax before they subjected him to torture or a trial of endurance?
But he half-believed the guard who returned to his seat as the van gathered speed. Why should they let him go at all? The guard gestured towards the wallet he had returned.
'You will find all your money intact. Belgian francs, deutschmarks Dutch guilders. Telescope does not steal like the Syndicate.'
Litov stiffened, tried to keep his face expressionless. What the hell was going on? This was the first admission that these men belonged to Telescope. And why the casual mention of the Syndicate? To test his reaction? Of one thing Litov was now certain he was being freed in the hope that he would lead them to the Syndicate's headquarters. He had trouble concealing his satisfaction. They were in for a surprise, a very nasty surprise indeed.
*
Pierre Florin, desk sergeant at Brussels police headquarters, requested a week's leave soon after the two men had accosted Louise in the reception room. It was the sight of Beaurain running up the stairs to attend the meeting and the realisation that the girl knew Beaurain which had scared Florin. Because of his long years of service his request was immediately granted.
He spent most of the seven days in his bachelor's apartment in south Brussels. One of the fake detectives visited him one evening.
'Why have you taken this leave, Florin?' he demanded. 'It draws attention to you at just the wrong moment.'
'I am worried. Beaurain…'
'You are a fool. Beaurain is no longer on the force.'
'He carries enormous influence.' Florin could not keep still, and kept moving restlessly about, fussily moving cheap mementoes of holidays in Ostend. 'I would not like to be grilled by Beaurain,' Florin continued, confirming the other man's opinion that he would crack under interrogation. 'I want my money.' The lean-faced man extracted a sealed envelope and dropped it on the floor, making Florin stoop to retrieve it. Then he left and reported his doubts to Dr. Otto Berlin.
It took Dr. Berlin several days to locate Gunther Baum, the East German whose speciality was the removal of people. Baum and his companion, a nondescript individual who carried a brief-case, arrived unannounced at Florin's apartment. Wearing dark glasses, Baum was smartly dressed in American clothes. Outside Florin's apartment he took the silenced Luger from the brief-case and held it behind his back as he pressed the bell.
Gunther Baum was medium built and deliberate in his movements. 'Never hurry,' he often warned his assistant. 'It draws attention to you.' He was wearing a straw hat which, with his tinted glasses, masked his whole upper face, revealing only a pug nose, a small thin mouth and a fleshy jaw. Cupped in his left hand he carried a photo of Pierre Florin. It was best to proceed in a methodical manner.
Florin opened the door and glanced nervously at the strangers before starting to close it again. 'We are the Criminal Division. A message from headquarters. Concerning the incident there about one week ago. We may come in, yes?'
'Of course…'
Baum spoke in a sing-song French. He spoke in short sentences as though he expected everyone to accept him at face value. It never occurred to Florin to ask for some form of identification. They proceeded into the apartment, first Florin, then Baum and his companion, who carried the empty br ief-case and closed the door.
'You are alone?' Baum asked.
'Yes, I seldom…'
'Keep walking, please. We have been asked to look at your bedroom. Statements have been made that a woman visits you who keeps bad company.'
'That's ridiculous.'
